


NotRIGHT... except for you

by V_Virgo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, But I ship them, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I dont confirm if they are in a relationship, I might add a fluffy chapter, Jim Moriarty Has Feelings, Jim Moriarty Has Issues, M/M, No Beta, Overstimulation, Overthinking, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, Platonic Relationships, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, idk what they are and neither do they, im not, im tired rn tbh, im too good for that, sorta - Freeform, tbh jim doesnt know much rn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27146239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V_Virgo/pseuds/V_Virgo
Summary: This person… didn’t have a name. He was smalldarknessoverwhelmedunderwhelmeddark.Footsteps—tooloudtooloud—came into his vision.Safe, said Jim.Mine, said Moriarty.Not real, said James.Not real, agreed Moriarty.Trust, whispered Jim....Jim has a panic attack and freaks out. Sherlock attempts to help.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	NotRIGHT... except for you

Jim jolted awake. No, that wasn’t right. James jolted—no, no, no not right either. Moriarty jolted—not rightnotrightnotright. Everything was too loudtooloudtooloud, why was it so fucking loud?! 

Something was wrapped around his middle, smooth and suffocating. He blinked away darkness, stifling. His brain—his head throbbed. Senses turned cottony. He pushed away the smoothsuffocating thing. Skin turned cold. Skin turned hot. He stood and then immediately stumbled forward. 

A hand flew out, catching something—hardsturdywoodenheavy—and cutting into his palm. A bright flash that vanished into nothingness. Someone was breathing. Who was breathing? They sounded in pain, distressed, not that he cared. 

Jim is in pain, his brain whispered. 

The person—because his name wasn’t Jim. Jim was softsarcasticmuffledwordsagainstskin not this strange notrightnotrightnotright. James was polishedgunshalfsmilesbrokentilesblood. Moriarty was dangerousplansspiderenemyselfish. This person… didn’t have a name. He was smalldarknessoverwhelmedunderwhelmeddark. 

Light flooded the darkness.

He flinched backward. A thud sounded in his brain, the person’s head connecting with hardsturdywoodenheavy. Then, the silence vanished. And immediately the person wanted the silence, because CHAOS was so much worse. 

Footsteps—tooloudtooloud—came into his vision. Light reflected against the… he racked his brain for the word… window. His flesh prickled, flashing hot then cold then hot then pins and needles, daggers digging into his skin tearing away at it to reveal tendons and blood. 

Like the room.

The footsteps turned to a shape. A shape with shoulders and long legs and curly hair. Inside of the person’s brain, voices screamed. They wrangled for control, pulling and pushing and sending bursts to brightwrongno through the person’s skull.

Safe, said Jim.

Mine, said Moriarty.

Not real, said James.

Not real, agreed Moriarty. 

Trust, whispered Jim. 

Jim was being pushed into a corner, his mouth and nose shoved under blistering water. James watched. Moriarty smiled, danger-like teeth, mania tinging the edges.  
The person screamed, throat raw. More brightnessmorewrong. 

The footsteps—the shape that the voices hated—no, loved—no, wanted dead—no, wanted to die for. The shape got smaller, got closer. The person tore at the shape, it was tooclosetooclose. It needed to get away because everything was notrightnotright. 

The shape pulled the person close. 

And for a blessed second, the voices stopped. 

His senses skyrocketed. His skin screamed, like a thousand snake bites, venom soaking into his veins and poisoning his core, setting his lungs alright with acid. Noise turned piercing until the person was sure he was bleeding, because that’s what brightpain meant: blood. 

The shape isn’t real, Moriarty hissed. 

The person started struggling again, writhing because Moriarty must be rightrightright. He must be. Those were the rules. Nothing was real except for sensation and brightwrongnopain. That meant he was real. The shape wasn’t anyone. HE WASN’T REAL. 

“Stop.”

Moriarty paused his yelling, staring transfixed. The person did the same. He stared into the shape’s eyes. Blue… he stared closer, no green. A strange mix, a swirling cauldron. I know you, the eyes seemed to whisper. 

“Your name is James—Jim—Moriarty.”

He shook his head, brightwrong bounced in his skull, but he needed to tell the bluegreeneyes that wasn’t his name. He didn’t have a name. He was just The Person. 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

That… that was right.

The person stared, the voices quieting because finally, something was right. 

“You are mine, and I am yours.”

That was right too. The shape—Sherlock was right. The person decided he liked Yours rather than The Person. It was fitting. Everything was notrightnotright except brightwrongpaino and Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t hurt. 

Well, everything hurt, but Sherlock least of all. 

“H-Hello,” he said, voice grating, but his own voice. 

“Hello,” Sherlock said. “I am going to take care of you.” 

He wasn’t sure of his name or of the sensation or of whether or not everything was notreal, but he was sure Sherlock was telling the truth. With that in mind, he crumbled into Sherlock’s chest.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a messily written fic at late-ish to Overwhelmed at 1.25-speed looping. Not sure if it's my emotions right now, but it feels good to write out emotions. I am considering writing a fluffy chapter with basically aftercare (or care in general). 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts, I adore every comment it makes my day.


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